


Borrowed

by Kiraly



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 5 Times, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hair Braiding, Illustrations, M/M, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 05:57:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10565022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiraly/pseuds/Kiraly
Summary: Yuri never meant to steal Otabek's scarf. Or his hoodie.The sunglasses, though, he definitely meant to steal.Or, "Five times Yuri stole Otabek's clothes, and one time he didn't have to."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wheee, this is finally finished! It's my longest YOI fic to date, so I hope you like it.
> 
> Many thanks to IdleLeaves for the encouragement and beta-reading! <3
> 
> Also, I wasn't very specific about dates, but hopefully it's clear that by the end the two of them have been friends for a few years, so *vague hand waving about aged-up characters*.

The first time was an accident, no matter what anyone said later. He’d just _met_ the guy, for fuck’s sake, even if they had been in the same place at the same time years ago. The whole situation was so surreal—the motorcycle rescue, the offer of friendship, the meal that Viktor and Katsudon so rudely interrupted—that it wasn’t like Yuri could have _planned_ it. Besides, he was a world-class figure skater; he didn’t need to steal. Even if it _was_ a very nice scarf.

“I’m _fine,_ I don’t need it,” Yuri grumbled. He was from fucking _Russia;_ the Barcelona weather was nothing by comparison. Even so, Otabek continued to hold out his jacket.

“The wind’s picking up,” he said, less like he was arguing and more like he was making an observation. “You’re shivering, too.”

“I am _not,”_ Yuri said, even though he was, “and if I take your jacket _you’ll_ be the one shivering! Get on the damn bike, let’s go.”

Maybe Otabek knew he couldn’t win the argument. Maybe he regretted making the offer, was rethinking this friendship entirely. Or maybe he was just cold. “All right.” He shrugged into the jacket and swung his leg over the motorcycle. And then, almost as an afterthought, “Take the scarf, at least.” He thrust it into Yuri’s hands before Yuri could stop him.

The wool was warm around his neck, and cut the wind more than he’d expected. He still didn’t _need_ it—the Ice Tiger of Russia did not get cold—but it wasn’t like he had to wear it for long. He’d just give it back when they got to the hotel.

But when the door to his room clicked closed behind him, he was still wearing the scarf. _Fuck._ Too late to give it back now; he’d barely managed to avoid the roving hordes of fans getting back to his room. Next time he probably wouldn’t be so lucky. _I’ll just return it tomorrow, after the final._ He tossed the scarf in the direction of his suitcase and fell into bed.

He didn’t see the scarf again until four days later, as he was digging through the suitcase for his favorite leopard-print shoes. Even then, he didn’t notice it right away; there were lots of black clothes in there, and he was late for practice. He threw together an outfit of things that were mostly clean, found his jacket, and was almost out the door when it hit him. He glanced in the mirror like he always did, and everything looked fine. Except— _wait. This isn’t mine. Shit._

Well. It looked good, at least. And it wasn’t like he could give it back now, not without a lot of hassle. Plus, doing so would mean _telling_ Otabek that he’d taken it. He wasn’t about to do that. There had to be an easier way.

Halfway to the rink, it came to him. _If Otabek wants it back, he can just ask for it._ The thought put a smile on his face, which set the fangirls to screaming when he posted the photo.

_yuri-plisetsky_

_Back in #moscow back #ontheice #goldmedalist  #newoutfit_

* * *

 

In Yuri’s defense, the second time was _also_ an accident. He didn’t see Otabek for months after the Grand Prix Final; the Kazakh skater had no reason to be at the European Championship, and Yuri had no reason to be at Four Continents. Even if _some_ people seemed to think so.

 **viktor-nikiforov** : EXCITED for #4CC!!! @katsuki-yuuri will win gold for #skating and also #cuteness ;)

 **katsuki-yuuri** : @viktor-nikiforov awww thanks babe you’re pretty cute too <3

 **yuri-plisetsky** : @viktor-nikiforov @katsuki-yuuri UGHHH you two make me fucking SICK #getaroom #quitflirtingontwitter

 **viktor-nikiforov** : awww @katsuki-yuuri I think @yuri-plisetsky misses us! COME TO #4CC YURIO!!!

 **yuri-plisetsky** : @viktor-nikiforov @katsuki-yuuri HELL NO I WILL NOT COME WATCH UR DISGUSTING DISPLAY #hellno #no #shutthefuckup #notmyname

 **katsuki-yuuri** : @yuri-plisetsky but you’ll cheer for me, right Yurio? #friends

 **yuri-plisetsky** : @katsuki-yuuri shut up katsudon #notmyname

 **yuri-plisetsky** : @otabek-altin kick ass at #4CC cuz imma kick urs at #worlds. DAVAI!!

 **viktor-nikiforov** : @yuri-plisetsky RUDE

 **otabek-altin** : Thanks @yuri-plisetsky. We’ll see whose ass gets kicked. #gold

Otabek actually got bronze at Four Continents—fucking Katsudon stole the gold, and to Yuri’s disgust _JJ_ took silver—but Yuri watched the videos of his routines over and over. Otabek’s style was utterly different from his, and yet it had this compelling quality to it. Yuri found it hard to look away.

By the time Worlds came around, Yuri had mostly forgotten the stolen scarf. He had more important concerns, like pushing himself to the limit. Most of his closest competitors hadn’t been at the European Championship; they’d been facing off against each other at Four Continents. There was no way he’d let them get an edge over him now. He just had to focus.

So when Otabek knocked on his door the first day at Worlds and asked if he wanted to go for a ride, it surprised even Yuri that his answer was “yes.” After half an hour of dodging through Shanghai traffic, they found themselves in a park on the edge of the water. A light rain began to fall, but neither suggested heading back.

“Are you nervous for tomorrow?” Otabek asked. He leaned against the rail, looking out at the water.

Yuri glared at him. “Fuck no. Why would I be?”

Otabek glanced over to where Yuri stood, hunched forward with one leg tucked up beneath him. “No reason. You just seem a little...tense.” He didn’t state the obvious—that it was Yuri’s first World Championship—like so many other people would have. They both knew how important tomorrow would be.

Even so, Yuri rolled his eyes. Tension wasn’t a temporary state. Sixteen years of life had honed his already high-strung nerves to perfection. It allowed the razor-sharp focus that made him good at what he did. “I’m always like this,” he said, “Relaxation is for people who don’t want to win.”

“Ah.” For a while, Otabek didn’t say anything else, letting the lapping waves and the cries of the gulls speak for him. Then, “I guess that means you don’t want to watch a movie with me when we get back to the hotel, then?”

They ended up in Yuri’s room, sprawled on the bed with the television on. Yuri flipped from channel to channel until Otabek wrested the remote from him. “This movie is cheesy as hell—it’s older than both of us put together!” Yuri complained. Otabek shrugged and pushed the remote further from Yuri’s reaching hand. “I hope this isn’t your favorite movie or something,” Yuri grumbled, “Because I will make fun of it the entire time.”

“I assumed you’d do that anyway,” Otabek replied. So Yuri pointed out all the film’s flaws, with Otabek chiming in if something especially stupid happened. Before long though, the busy day and the jet lag caught up with them. One moment Yuri was watching the movie; the next, the credits were rolling and Otabek was extricating his shoulder from under Yuri’s head.

“What’re you—?”

“Go back to sleep, Yuri. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Mmm. Fine. G’night, asshole.” Yuri turned the television off and burrowed under his covers. Probably for the best that Otabek had left before he had a chance to say something dumb, like ‘stay here, you make a good pillow.’ The last thing he saw before falling asleep was Otabek’s grey hoodie, left draped over a chair to dry.

* * *

 

“So have you packed yet?” Otabek smothered a yawn, shifting his laptop to a more comfortable position. It was late for him, but the three-hour time difference and their training schedules meant snatching whatever time they could.

Yuri snorted. “Fuck no. I’ll just throw stuff into a suitcase and go.” By now he’d spent enough time traveling for competitions that he had a pretty good idea what to pack. And anyway, this time he wasn’t at the mercy of some hotel if he forgot something important; he’d just borrow it from Otabek.

Like the grey hoodie he was wearing, which he would _not_ be taking to Kazakhstan. He knew he should; this visit to Otabek made the perfect opportunity to return the clothes he’d ended up with on accident. And it wasn’t like it was his style, anyway—he usually wore black, or red, or something with an animal print on it. But Yuri had convinced himself it didn’t make sense to pack a whole extra hoodie, especially not one that was two sizes too big. He was conserving space in his suitcase, that was all. It had nothing to do with how comfortable it was, or that it had become his favorite shirt for lounging around his apartment. Of course not.

Yuri felt justified in his decision to pack light when he met Otabek outside baggage claim.

“You came to pick me up on your motorcycle? From the _airport?”_ Yuri rolled his eyes, and Otabek’s ears turned pink.

“I realized halfway here that it might not be the best idea, but I didn’t want to be late to meet you. If that’s your only bag though, we should be fine.” Otabek turned his gaze away from Yuri’s suitcase and focused on Yuri instead. “Anyway. It’s good to see you, Yura.” He stuck out his hand.

Yuri slapped his hand aside and opened his arms. “Don’t try to give me that handshake bullshit, I just flew all the way here to see you! Hug me, asshole.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Your arms must be very tired.” Otabek caught him in a hug, ignoring the way Yuri sputtered at the comment.

“Damn,” he said, when Otabek released him, “You got _sarcastic.”_

Otabek hoisted Yuri’s suitcase onto the back of his bike. “Someone must be rubbing off on me.”

The _problem_ with packing light, Yuri discovered, was that it meant he didn’t have all the stuff he usually packed. Like sunglasses, for instance.

“What’s with this sun? I thought you said it was always cloudy here,” he grumbled from his perch behind Otabek. The light was at the perfect angle to pierce his eyes, which meant either squinting or closing them entirely. He wasn’t going to miss his first real view of Almaty for such a stupid reason.

The bike pulled to a stop, and Otabek reached into the satchel slung over his shoulder. “Here. I have a spare pair.” He handed Yuri a pair of sunglasses. They fit perfectly. And not only that, but as Yuri discovered when they stopped next to a storefront with a reflective window, they looked _cool._ Sure, he was on a _motorcycle_ behind a man in black leather, and the studs on his own black-and-leopard-print jacket definitely added to the badass factor, but the sunglasses really made a difference.

It only made sense to keep wearing them for the duration of his visit to Almaty. The whole week featured weather that Otabek described as “unusually sunny”, so he had no reason not to. It didn’t start raining until he was preparing to leave, and by then it was second nature to pocket the sunglasses on his way out the door. He could give them back when they got to the bike. Or at the airport. Or, he thought, as he emptied his pockets on his way through security, he could return them someday when Otabek came to visit him.

 **yuri-plisetsky:** back to practice after a week of #sunshine in #almaty with @otabek-altin

 **otabek-altin:** @yuri-plisetsky You took the sunshine with you, it’s been raining ever since you left.

 **yuri-plisetsky:** @otabek-altin too bad, i’m not giving it back

* * *

 

"Aww, shit."

Blond hair fell down around Yuri's face, sticking uncomfortably to the sweat a morning of practice had worked up.

Otabek looked over from his seat on the end of the bench, water bottle half-raised to his lips. "What is it, Yura?"

Even after all these months, the nickname still gave Yuri a fluttery feeling. His friend had adopted it without explanation, simply started using it one day. Yuri couldn't find it in him to object, especially not after his visit to Almaty had revealed that Otabek's friends and family called him "Beka".

"Just this fucking hair tie," Yuri said. The damn thing had snapped as he was in the middle of wrestling his hair into a messy ponytail, and he didn't have a spare with him at the rink. His hair had grown out over the summer, and although he had no desire to cut it, moments like this made him wonder why he bothered keeping it.

"Hmm." Otabek set his water down and came over to stand next to Yuri. "It's definitely dead. Do you want to use this one?" He pulled a thin black band off his wrist and handed it over.

Yuri stared. "Beka, what the fuck? Your hair's not even long enough to pull back, why do you have this?"

Otabek shrugged. "I had long hair for a little while. I got used to carrying one around. Plus, well, you saw how my sister always loses hers. It seemed like a good idea to have an extra, just in case." A hint of a smile tugged at his mouth. "As you're seeing now."

Yuri rolled his eyes and took the proffered tie. "You're so cheesy, Beka." He started to shove his hair into some semblance of a ponytail, but stopped when he saw Otabek's wince. "What?"

Otabek glanced toward the rink—they were alone in the locker room for the moment, and their practice time wasn't due to start again for another fifteen minutes. "Yura...do you want me to braid it for you?"

"Wha—you can do that?" For some reason, Yuri's face felt warm. Probably just because his hair was on it.

"Yeah. I’m not too bad at it, even if mine’s too short for it now. Here, let me." He stood behind Yuri, pulling the strands back away from his face. His hands were gentle; not like Lilia's, who insisted prima ballerinas should be just as disciplined with their coiffure as the rest of their bodies and ignored his complaints when she pulled too tight. There was something soothing about Otabek's fingers in his hair, carding through it to loosen the tangles Yuri had put in with his half-assed attempt.

"I'm trying to imagine you with braided hair," he said, closing his eyes and leaning into the touch, "Or long hair. Did you, like...let it flap in the wind when you rode your motorcycle? Like a fucking princess in black leather?"

A low hum that might have been laughter rumbled from Otabek's chest. "It was not _that_ long, Yura. Shorter than yours is now. And I still had it shaved on the sides and back like I do now, it was just longer on top."

Actually, the thought of that was...strangely appealing. He'd have to see if there were pictures somewhere.

"And you'd braid it yourself? How do you even learn to do that?" He'd thought about it, idly, whenever he was pulling out one of Lilia's painful creations. It seemed like a lot of effort that he could better direct elsewhere.

"You practice. And you do it badly for long enough that you start to be able to do it well." Otabek paused, pulled another few strands into the braid. "Kind of like skating, actually."

Yuri snorted. "Speak for yourself. I _never_ skate badly."

Otabek laughed out loud. "Of course. How could I forget?" He held his hand out. "Hair tie."

Yuri handed it over, and in short order Otabek finished off the braid and stepped away. "There. See what you think."

Yuri patted the top of his head experimentally. The strands locked against each other, tightly enough to stay put but not so tight that it pulled on his scalp. He couldn't feel any stray hairs, and when he got up to look in the mirror, he couldn't see any, either.

"Wow. That's not bad, Beka." He shook his head hard—still no movement. "If you ever give up skating, you could always take up a career as a stylist."

Otabek picked up his water bottle and shook his head. "Whatever you say, Yura. I think I'll wait to finalize my career change until _after_ I beat you tomorrow."

"You think you'll win gold over me? Ha!" Yuri bumped Otabek with his shoulder on the way out of the locker room. "I'm going to win, and I'll look amazing when I do."

Yuri flew home from the Cup of China with a silver medal and Otabek's hair tie on his wrist.

 **yuri-plisetsky:** some skaters are too damn talented *coughcough @otabek-altin cough*

 **otabek-altin:** What, does that mean I don't need to find a new career @yuri-plisetsky?

 **yuri-plisetsky:** @otabek-altin no clearly i was talking about your mad #braiding skills you should still become a stylist

 **viktor-nikivorov:** @yuri-plisetsky what's this? Trying to weed out the competition, Yurio?

 **katsuki-yuuri:** Congratulations on your #gold @otabek-altin! Don't let Yurio mess with you.

 **yuri-plisetsky:** @viktor-nikiforov @katsuki-yuuri SHUT THE FUCK UP THAT'S NOT MY NAME #mindyourownbusiness

 **yuri-plisetsky:** @otabek-altin still think about that stylist thing tho

 **yuri-plisetsky:** @otabek-altin my hair looked #fuckingawesome

 **otabek-altin:** Thanks @yuri-plisetsky. I doubt I'll be changing careers anytime soon, but if *you* plan to I can give you braiding tips

 **yuri-plisetsky:** @otabek-altin lol no. i'll be the one wearing #gold at the #GPF

* * *

 

"YURIOOOOO! OTABEKKKK!"

"Do you think they can hear us through the glass? Hey, Yurio, look over here!"

"I don't know, maybe we need to shout louder. YURIOOOO—"

"Oh my GOD would you two SHUT UP?" Yuri turned to glare out the window, where Viktor and Katsudon were making fools of themselves, as usual. "The entire street can hear you, assholes! Quit shouting!"

"OKAY!"

Yuri turned back to Otabek, rolling his eyes. "Can you _believe_ those two? Like it's not bad enough I have to watch them drooling all over each other at practice every day. They have to barge in on my personal life, too." The worst part was, he was getting used to it. The two of them didn't seem to care how much he shouted or swore, they'd just drag him into their sappy bullshit whether he wanted them to or not. But what he didn't mind so much on his own was still _hugely_ embarrassing when they did it in front of other people. Especially his best friend, who he hardly ever got to see.

"Do you think we should invite them to sit with us?" Otabek asked, looking from the window to Yuri and back. "They seem very excited."

"Ugh. Hell no, they'll ruin our lunch." He risked another glance outside, and saw that the two of them had stopped waving and were having a whispered conversation instead. "And they're not excited, that's how they are _all the time._ It's so fucking gross."

"Hmm." Otabek didn't have time to say anything else, because just then the door to the cafe opened and two familiar faces made a beeline for their table.

"There you are, Yurio! And Otabek, what a surprise!" Viktor clapped his hands delightedly.

Yuuri smiled fondly at his fiance before stretching out a hand. "Otabek, it's good to see you."

"Likewise," Otabek said, shaking it. Viktor beamed at them both.

Yuri kept glaring. "What the fuck do you two want?"

"What, can't we come say hello? Otabek's been in town for _days_ and we haven't seen him at all! Where have you been hiding him, Yurio?"

"I have NOT been fucking hiding anyone!" Or not intentionally, anyway. It was just that, with so many months between actually getting to see each other, he'd wanted to have Otabek to himself for a little while. His rinkmates were loud and obnoxious and, in Katsudon's and Viktor's case, over-the-top affectionate. Was it so wrong to want a few days away from that?

And anyway, they'd been out and about, exploring Saint Petersburg on Otabek's rented motorcycle. It couldn't be considered 'hiding' if they were out in public, Yuri thought. Even if he now wished they'd hidden a little better.

While Viktor chattered on about how disappointing it was that Yuri didn't want to share Otabek's company, Katsuki was trying to act all hospitable.

"How are you liking the city so far? Has Yurio shown you around? There are some neat things to see—the cathedrals, the palaces, the museums..."

Otabek nodded. "Sure, we've been busy. Yuri is a good host."

"Are the two of you going somewhere _special_ later? You're all dressed up! That sweater is a good look, don't you think Yurio?"

Yuri froze. He'd been carefully _not_ thinking about Otabek's outfit all day; the elegant blue sweater and slacks were not something he'd ever seen Otabek wear, And now Katsudon had to go and bring it up like it _meant_ something. This wasn't the first time one of his rinkmates had implied that there was something more than friendship going on between the two of them; Mila made a big deal of it whenever she caught him texting Otabek during practice, and of course Viktor took every opportunity to act like everyone in the world was as in love as he was. But this was a new low.

"We still haven't decided," Otabek said, not seeming to notice Yuri's flaming face or Katsudon's smirk. "And thank you." He nodded at the shopping bags in Yuuri's arms. "Did you want to set those down?"

"Oh, no, we should get home! Just thought we'd stop and say hello," Yuuri said. "Viktor, are you ready?"

"Ready for anything, as long as you're there," Viktor said. "Bye, Yurio! Bye Otabek! Enjoy your date—I mean, your day!"

"STOP BEING SO DISGUSTING YOU OLD MAN!" Yuri called after him. He buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry about that."

Otabek started on his food again. "There's nothing to be sorry about. I think it's nice that they're so fond of you."

"Hmph." Yuri stuffed a bite of piroshki in his mouth so he wouldn't have to respond to that. He wanted to go back to the peaceful lunch they'd been having before, but now all he could think about was Katsudon's comment and the stupid sweater. _It shouldn’t look so good on him. Why the fuck does it look so good?_

He was still thinking about it that night, when Otabek was in the bathroom brushing his teeth and Yuri tripped over his suitcase. The blue sweater was right on top, neatly folded so Otabek could pack it away. Yuri shot a furtive glance at the bathroom—Otabek wasn't coming yet—and picked it up. It was softer than it looked, and the knit cables added a pleasant texture. Yuri held it up against himself; he'd been growing again, and was tall enough to look Otabek in the eyes now, so it would probably fit him. He wondered if it would look as good on him as it did on Otabek. Only one way to tell.

"Yura, what are you doing?" Otabek asked, coming out of the bathroom a few minutes later.

"What? Nothing, what are you talking about?"

Otabek raised an eyebrow. "You don't usually stand around without a shirt on. And your face is red."

Yuri crossed his arms over his chest, using his foot to nudge the incriminating evidence of the sweater and his own t-shirt under the couch. "It's warm in here. And anyway, I'm going to bed, I don't need a shirt."

"Oh. All right, then. Good night, Yura."

"Night Beka." Yuri closed the bedroom door behind him and slumped against it. _What the hell am I doing?_ There was no reason to be embarrassed; he'd liked the sweater, and wanted to see if it would fit, that was all. Surely friends did that kind of thing. Otabek would understand. But no, he'd panicked when he heard Otabek coming back and ended up acting like an idiot. _That's some Katsudon shit right there, taking my shirt off and hiding Beka's sweater under the couch. Fuck._

The logical thing to do would be to retrieve the sweater in the morning and put it back in Otabek's suitcase before he noticed it was gone. It wasn't like he meant to _keep_ it, after all. Not like the hair tie, which was still on his wrist, or the scarf that he'd had so long Otabek had probably forgotten it. Yuri changed into his pajamas—including the grey hoodie which was _also_ Otabek's, dammit—and flung himself into bed. _This is getting ridiculous,_ he thought, just before he fell asleep. _I have to stop taking his stuff. Tomorrow I'll give the sweater back._

But the sweater stayed where it was until the day after Otabek left. Yuri unearthed it and pulled it over his head, running his fingers down the cables on his chest. It was loose, but that was okay. It still smelled like Otabek.

* * *

 

 **yuri-plisetsky:** WORLD CHAMPION BITCHES! #partytime #gold #dancedancedance  
  
**viktor-nikiforov:** @yuri-plisetsky SO PROUD OF YOU YURIOOOOO!!!  
  
**katsuki-yuuri:** @yuri-plisetsky Congratulations!  
  
**viktor-nikiforov:** @katsuki-yuuri they grow up so fast, don't they?  
  
**katsuki-yuuri:** @viktor-nikiforov They do :D

Yuri woke with a splitting headache. He raised his hand to block the light coming in from the window, groaning as sore muscles added to the cacophony of pain. He was in an unfamiliar bed—well, not his own bed, anyway. After a while hotel beds all started to feel the same. But now that he thought about it, this wasn't his hotel bed, either.

He sat up, biting back another moan as his body protested. It was worth it. The medal hanging from his neck shone even brighter in the daytime, warmed by the sun and the taste of victory. It was almost enough to drown out the nervous flutter in the pit of his stomach when the sound of running water in the bathroom cut off. It _wasn't_ quite enough to keep him from swallowing hard when the door opened and Otabek emerged in a cloud of steam.

"Morning, Yura," he said. "Did you sleep okay?"

From the angle of the light coming in the window, he'd slept longer than he meant to. But both of them had evening flights, and there was no real hurry to be anywhere. With the competition over and a gold medal around his neck, Yuri deserved to celebrate a little.

"Sure," he said, stretching his arms over his head, "Though I could have done without the headache."

"I did try to make you drink water," Otabek said. He had, Yuri now remembered, but between the thrill of victory and the novelty of actually being old enough to drink at the banquet without stealing from other people, Yuri hadn't listened. Otabek had put up with him anyway. Maybe it was because, with the gold medalist around, people tended to focus less on the man wearing silver. Or maybe it was just that Otabek was a good friend who wanted to make sure Yuri didn't embarrass himself. There had been dancing, but Yuri was pretty certain he'd kept his clothes on. Since he was still dressed apart from his jacket and shoes, it seemed like a safe bet. _Even if I do seem to have shared a bed with Beka. Fuck. That’s...that’s a friend thing, right?_

"Yeah, well, water is no match for me," he muttered. "Uh...Beka...why am I in your room?"

Otabek looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "You were having a hard time walking, and you...wouldn't let go of me. It seemed easier than helping you all the way down the hall to your room." He dug around in his suitcase for a clean shirt. "I hope that's okay."

"Sure, yeah. I guess if I had to haul my drunk ass around, I wouldn't want to go any farther than I had to," Yuri said. Now that he was more awake, he started noticing other issues—his hair was a mess, his mouth was dry, and he could feel every bruise from the past few days. "Mind if I use your shower?" he asked.

Otabek gestured his acceptance. Yuri disappeared into the welcome warmth of the bathroom.

When he emerged, he felt much more like himself. He was also _starving._

"Beka, do you want to get some breakfast?" He'd probably have to stop by his own room first, unless he wanted to go out in last night's clothes.

Otabek looked up from his phone. "More like lunch by now. But sure, we can go. I wanted to check out that market we saw the other day, too." He eyed the towel wrapped around Yuri's waist, then looked away. "Do you want to borrow something to wear?"

The t-shirt was too big across the shoulders, and it was a good thing Otabek's warmup pants had a drawstring to keep them up. He'd worn his leopard-print shoes to the banquet—Yakov had glared, but now Yuri was glad he didn't have to suffer in his uncomfortable dress shoes. On the way out the door, he grabbed a jacket off the chair and followed Otabek into the hallway.

He had one arm in a sleeve when he looked up and caught Otabek's stare. "What?" Otabek coughed and gestured faintly at Yuri’s arm.

 _Oh._ His hand stuck out of a blue-gold-and-white sleeve. He'd grabbed Otabek's team Kazakhstan jacket. "Oh. Should I take this off?"

"No, it's...don't worry, it's fine." Otabek pulled the collar of his own jacket closer around his neck. He stayed quiet as they exited the hotel, even when the chilly breeze made Yuri swear. Yuri didn't think much of it at first—it was Otabek after all, not someone like Viktor who never shut up—but by the time they arrived at the bustling market, he was starting to wonder. Had he done something to upset him? The events of last night were still a little hazy, but he was pretty sure he'd remember doing something horribly offensive. Otabek put up with a lot from him; he hadn't seemed bothered by Yuri's drunken clinging, or the way he'd casually borrowed half his wardrobe this morning. _He did seem a little thrown by the jacket, but—I can't really blame him, it's comfortable._ Yuri thought fleetingly of 'accidentally' forgetting to give it back, but shot the idea down almost immediately. Otabek would definitely notice. It was a little surprising that he hadn't noticed how many of his clothes were in Yuri's possession already.

"Do you want to eat before we go through the market, Beka? Or should we look around first?" Otabek shrugged; Yuri persisted. "Were you looking for something in particular?"

Finally, Otabek broke his silence. "Oh, well...I thought I saw a stall selling scarves when we passed by the other day. I keep losing mine, so I was going to look for a new one."

A jolt of guilt shot through Yuri. At least one of those lost scarves was currently in his closet in Saint Petersburg. To cover his discomfort, he said, "Sure, let's go look for one. You should be more careful with this one though, it's not like scarves grow on trees."

Otabek sighed. "Well, I seem to have a bad habit of losing my clothes. Especially when I travel. I guess I get so focused on competitions, I can't keep track of my stuff."

Now Yuri felt even worse. Otabek _had_ noticed! He just thought it was his own fault. And maybe it was, a tiny bit, for becoming friends with Yuri Plisetsky, Clothing Thief. After everything Otabek had done for him, and with all that Otabek was to him...Yuri didn't deserve his friendship, let alone the _something more_ that had been hovering unsaid between them. _I should just tell him. I can put a box together, mail it all back to Almaty if he doesn't want to see me anymore._ It was the right thing, he knew, but that didn't make it suck any less.

They reached the scarf vendor, and Yuri was so preoccupied with his thoughts that at first he didn't notice what Otabek was doing. Then he heard the vendor say, "That's a good choice! A very striking pattern, especially against the black of your jacket."

Yuri's eyebrows shot up. "Beka, what are you _doing?"_ he demanded. Otabek was looking at a golden-brown scarf with leopard spots printed all over it. "You never wear anything like that, why don't you buy the black one or something?"

Otabek traced the pattern with his finger. "Well, Yura...I lost the last black scarf I had. And I thought that this one would look good on you, when you borrow it from me."

"You...WHAT?" Yuri's mouth dropped open. "You...you know about that?" He could  feel his face heating up despite the cold wind. Otabek was smiling.

"Of course, Yura. I mean, it was my fault; I forgot I loaned it to you until I was on my way home. And I meant to ask about the sweatshirt I left in your hotel room, but then you seemed to enjoy wearing it so much, I didn't want to ask for it back."

Yuri's mind flashed back to all those late-night Skype conversations, curled up in bed with the sleeves pulled over his hands and his laptop perched on his knees. Of course Otabek had noticed. He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid.

"And...the sunglasses? The hair tie?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"Those?" For some reason Otabek looked embarrassed now, but that was ridiculous. _He_ wasn't the one who'd been stealing from his best friend. "I meant for you to have those, Yura. I saw the sunglasses and thought you might like them. And a hair tie is meant to be borrowed forever." He stepped closer to Yuri, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Did you really think I would mind?"

"I don't...I'd already borrowed so much of your stuff, I felt shitty about it," Yuri said. "And with the sweater I just kind of...panicked."

Otabek laughed. "I'll admit, I was a little annoyed about the sweater at first. Where did you hide it, anyway? I checked your closet."

"You checked my—" Yuri buried his face in hands. "Oh my god. You actually knew I took it and—it was under the couch. Why didn't you _say_ something, Beka?"

Gentle hands pulled Yuri's away from his face. "I thought about it. But then I thought about you wearing it, and...well, I liked the idea." His eyes met Yuri's, and Yuri found he couldn't look away.

"I can...give it back," he said. His heart hammered in his chest, and it was hard to breathe.

"You could. But I think I'd like it better if you sent me a picture of you wearing it. I bet it looks good on you," Otabek said. He smiled. "You seem to always look better in my clothes than I do. Like this." He tugged on Yuri's jacket collar. "I'm half tempted to 'forget' I loaned this to you, too."

It was all too much. Otabek's smile, his wind-ruffled hair, his hands on Yuri's clothes— _his_ clothes, rather, that Yuri had borrowed yet again. So Yuri did the only thing he could do, and leaned forward to kiss him.

Otabek didn't even seem surprised; he just pulled Yuri closer. When Yuri broke the kiss, he allowed it, but reached up to run his fingers through Yuri's hair. "Yura," he whispered. This time they both moved, closing the gap between their lips. After that Yuri stopped paying attention to who was kissing and who was being kissed. Everything was Otabek, on his mouth, in his hair, wrapped around him like the coziest sweater in the world.

A hoarse cough interrupted them eventually. "Ahem. If you two aren't going to buy anything, would you mind moving? You're blocking my wares."

Yuri was tempted to give the vendor a piece of his mind and a rude gesture. Otabek stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Hold on, Yura." He treated Yuri to another smile and stepped up to the stall. When he returned, he held two scarves: one leopard print, one black. He looped the black one around Yuri's neck and took the other for himself. "There. Now when you steal this one from me, I'll be able to steal that one from you." He linked his fingers with Yuri's. "So. Lunch?"

Yuri squeezed his hand. "Lunch sounds good."

 

**yuri-plisetsky:** celebrating #gold with a #newjacket for me and a #newscarf for @otabek-altin 

 **viktor-nikiforov:** @yuri-plisetsky !!!!!!YURIO!!!!!!

 **katsuki-yuuri:** @yuri-plisetsky Awww Yurio! I knew it!

 **otabek-altin:** @yuri-plisetsky Looking good Yura.


End file.
